


Toys

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Romulans, Slavery, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of two Romulan slaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toys

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: These two were mentioned in a very sexy scene of the Star Trek novel “Killing Time,” which is an absolute must-read for its brilliant women and excess of Spirk.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The bathroom door is open, and Sekor slips through it without making a sound, bare feet careful across the tiled floor. He’s been trained with grace since birth, and he doesn’t want to disturb his... _friend_.

Tasme is before the mirror, dermal regenerator slipping over the red finger marks along his sides. Their mistress is not kind, though Sekor knows there are far, far crueler masters, and there is no greater honour than serving their Praetor. She is wise, powerful, and beautiful. His reflection ripples along the mirror as he moves, until he’s standing behind the only man left he knew from childhood. 

The others have all been sold or turned into Warriors, now dead. Tasme is too pretty for that sort of thing, either of them. His dark eyes catch Sekor’s in the mirror, neck tilting as Sekor slips close, chin over his shoulder. Sekor’s stomach presses into Tasme’s back, their black loincloths the only things between them. As it should be. Slaves don’t need clothes any more than they need friends. 

But Romulans aren’t as lonesome as many like to think. Sekor wraps his arms loosely around the other slave’s waist, pressing a chaste kiss to Tasme’s neck. His hair, dark, straight, sleek, and trimmed shorter than Sekor’s, slips out of the way as he tilts. Sekor leans his face against the side of Tasme’s, turning to slip his mouth over the curve of Tasme’s ear, tongue laving up to the pointed tip. Tasme’s lashes lower, arched brows knit together. The ridges on his forehead are faint, his pointed bangs covering most of them, and his bow lips part. Sekor murmurs too quietly for the surveillance to hear, “If you were mine, I would never bruise your pretty skin.”

Tasme leans against him and whispers back, “Were you mine, I would never give you the chance.” It’s cryptic, but any worthy Romulan is as much, slave or not. Barely stifling his grin, Sekor presses a kiss behind Tasme’s ear.

Then he pulls away, hands withdrawing to stay on Tasme’s shoulders, and he watches the wounds slowly disappear under the eerie light of the metal rod. When the smooth stomach, tight abs and six-pack and all, have returned to being flawless, Sekor reaches around, palm open. Glancing at it once, Tasme presses the regenerator into it. 

Sekor steps back enough to work, and he begins to heal the thick stripes of red between Tasme’s shoulder blades: the remnants of whipping. It isn’t something to draw eyes; punishments are a part of life in the Empire, and these are minimal. On Tasme, there’s something marginally more... irksome... about them. But Sekor merely asks, voice level as ever, “What did you do?”

Glancing once over his shoulder, Tasme informs, “I did not bring our mistress to orgasm in a timely fashion.”

Sekor’s lips twitch in a grin, and he casually drawls, “Perhaps you need more practice between a woman’s legs.” Tasme’s eyebrow lifts. He didn’t clarify which he used, but Sekor knows from experience that Tasme’s quite talented with both his tongue and cock, just like any good slave. Maybe more so. The regenerator drifts further down his back, the marks stopping just before the luscious curve of his ass. Sekor’s hand falters, but he resists. 

He places the regenerator on the counter. Tasme turns and pecks his lips, but Sekor has to pull back with a sigh. There isn’t the time to play. Not here, anyway. 

“I’ve come to fetch you,” he announces, and all the spare time he had to oversee the covering of injuries has now passed. “Perhaps you will do better this time.” There’s a challenging hint to the turn of his lips; Tasme is excellent almost every time, and they both know this is a strange exception. 

Personally, Sekor is hoping they’re going to put on a show with one another, but he knows better than to cling to hopes. He is his Praetor’s possession, and he will willingly, obediently, contentedly do whatever she wishes. Some days they are made to dance with one another, others they please her in turn, others all at once. The twinkle in Tasme’s eyes says the same: all of it.

Tasme’s hand slips into his, fingers entwining as Tasme heads for the bathroom door, Sekor trailing briskly behind. Whatever the night brings, Sekor will face it with pleasure.


End file.
